


The Adventure of the Missing Monk

by alyxpoe



Series: Three Geniuses [2]
Category: House M.D., Monk - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (believe or not), Case Fic, Crack, F/M, Gen, M/M, New Jersey, this is crack people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Monk. We Have Him. You Want Him. Give Us $1000.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to America, Princess

“Fuck. No.” Doctor Gregory House’s eyebrows threaten to jump into his receding hairline and the blue rubber ball he has just thrown bounces off the corner of his glass-topped desk and rolls across the floor to be stopped beneath the thin sole of a bespoke black leather dress shoe (UK size 12.) Long, well-made fingers pick it up and enclose it in a large fist.

“Wilson. No. I cannot work with this man.”

Doctor James Wilson turns to face the newcomers with the fresh cup of coffee he has just poured held in front of his chest like a half-assed shield. Actually, considering who their visitors are, maybe he should be thinking half- _arsed_. He gives the couple a wry smile then sets the coffee down in front of House and flicks the sitting man’s ear with two fingers.

“Shut up, House.” Wilson steps closer to the door, completely ignoring the older man sticking his tongue out at his back. He holds out a hand in the direction of both gentlemen. The shorter of the two takes it and gives it a firm, sturdy shake.

“John Watson.” John smiles.

“James Wilson.” James nods and offers his hand to the taller man.

Who looks down his nose at it and actually _sniffs_. “It’s _Doctor_ Watson.”

Oh boy. Wilson holds up his hands. “Oh! I’m sorry Doctor Watson, I didn’t…”

“It’s fine,” John tells him with a pat on the arm. “The princess is in a snit.” John looks up at the raven-curled man standing at his shoulder and raises his eyebrows. “The princess here is Sherlock Holmes.”

Wilson’s eyes light up in recognition. He turns to look at House over his shoulder, then back to Sherlock. “Ah.” Apparently, that’s the best he can do under the circumstances.

“John,” Sherlock drawls as he floats into the office, perching on the edge of House’s desk.

(Did I mention that the desk is _glass_? Ok, just making sure you were paying attention.)

“I don’t understand why you keep calling me by that preposterous name. The little girl on the aeroplane was just…” Sherlock begins as all the eyes in the room turn towards him.

Except for House’s. He is staring at the posh arse planted on his shiny desk. Which of course, John notices. John clears his throat. House frowns and just looks tired.

“Can it, Princess.” John says as he finds himself a seat at the conference table in the corner. He chuckles when Sherlock shoots him the evil eye.

“Why the hell are you two here, anyway? I remember saying something along the lines of ‘let’s never do this again’ the last time we had to deal with you two.*

(Me again. Sorry, if you are interested in _that_ part of the story, read _The Adventure of the Three Geniuses._ I’ll wait.)

….

….

 _(_ Ok, caught up now? Let’s continue, these four men are getting a bit restless…)

John is still relaxing at the conference table, Wilson in the chair at the head of it. He decided that whatever was going to happen next in this office was going to be too good to miss, so he made two more cups of coffee, passed one to John and planted himself in a prime spectator seat. House is still at his desk (so you really haven’t missed much, and watching Wilson make coffee is , in a word, _dull_ ) and a certain World’s Only (ha!) Consulting Detective is still perched on said desk, long legs crossed in front of him, posh bespoke shoes daintily tucked beneath his knees.

Wilson is faintly amused at how someone so _long_ can fold up like that.

John is holding back a case of the giggles that he is eventually going to blame on jet lag. Especially because he can’t decide whether to call Sherlock a Princess or a Pasha at this point.

House is wondering how many ball-point pens he can stick into Sherlock’s crazy hair before the detective will notice.

For all that, Sherlock is _still_ talking.

(Like you thought I was going to surprise you.)

John doesn’t need the story repeated, frankly, because he was there, but it has something to do with the people on the plane in front of them; an older man and a girl about seven years old. When the man left his seat to use the lavatory, the little girl finished off the man’s tiny bottle of whatever-the-hell-kind-of-whiskey-they-serve-these-days-on-cheap-flights-to-America-because-Sherlock-was-being-pigheaded-and-didn’t-want-to-go-anyway…

(Narrator clears her throat.)

(I'm sure you are all thinking that _this_ would be the perfect place to put a nod to _Cabin Pressure_...)

Anyway! It all boils down to a half-way tipsy seven-year-old girl and the Disney version of _Snow White_ that happened to be the on-board movie that day.

John is probably going to laugh about that for an incredibly long time.

(Cue the closing credits music to whichever show you prefer. You know, like all the Hogwart's students singing the school song to different melodies and then it gets stretched out and finally ends with the Weasely twins singing a funeral march. You know!!)

(Alright folks, we are gearing up for some more insanity. You probably have other things to do now---you know like get back to watching Sherlock Season 3 for the fifth…oh hell, who are we kidding? Tenth time. Right? See you in a few days!)


	2. Oozing Sherlocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Absolutely.” John agrees. He pats Sherlock’s shoulder and follows Wilson from the office, secretly hoping that House and Sherlock do not suddenly begin World War Three in the meantime...

John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes, of that there can be no doubt. If the matching molecule tattoos on their hands don’t give it away, nor the soppy way John still looks at the detective, then you must be dead. Alright?

So, sometimes, if John lets his favorite mad scientist mutter to himself as he goes about his day (whether experimenting in the kitchen or snuffling against John’s neck when they are...)

(I digress.)

Let’s just agree that sometimes John Watson just lets Sherlock Holmes _talk_ because he likes to hear his voice. Not to mention, most people are pretty sure Sherlock likes to hear _Sherlock’s_ voice as well. Sherlock makes fun of John and John’s blog (which is all about Sherlock) but John’s pretty sure Sherlock reads it for more than picking out the grammatical errors. The man probably hears his own voice in John’s words.

Here in this state-of-the-art office in the big hospital in a little state (called New Jersey). Our two Boswells (seriously? You don’t get that? And you call yourself a _fan_!) are happily sipping coffee and watching their respective geniuses. Watson is perfectly accustomed to his genius’s brand of ‘normal,’ though he has to admit, it’s always entertaining to see someone else’s.

Sherlock finally stops talking and oozes off House’s desk.

(Yes, oozes. Watch our Sherlock pour himself on and off furniture…it’s highly entertaining. Makes you wonder if Ben does that at home in RL…now _that_ would be highly entertaining in and of itself. Hugh could do some impressions of him during a stand-up routine…)

(Did I lose my place again?)

(Fine. Back to the story.)

Sherlock finally shuts his pretty mouth and oozes off the desk. House goes out of his way to open one of the drawers and take out an entire roll of paper towels. He pulls off about fifteen of them then makes a big show of wiping off the desk.

With a dry paper towel.

Wilson snorts. John suppresses a giggle. Sherlock spins around on the spot as if he has just realized what’s happening. He chooses to ignore it all, however, because there is a very tall bookcase packed with medical tomes behind Wilson. Sherlock reaches up and grabs about ten of them in one of his big paws…

(What now? Jeez. Fine. When Sherlock starts taking books off the shelf in the library in the Blind Banker, you can’t even tell me you didn’t go _holy shit_ when you realized how many hardbacks fit in his hand. So shut up and let me tell this story.)

(We good? Not trying to me nasty. Just wanna, you know…get on with it.)

Sherlock pulls three or four (you happy now?) books off the shelf and drops to the floor. In an instant, he’s got one open over his crossed legs. Now all John can see from his end of the table is a crazy mass of black curls and that single little patch of silver that he has completely _not_ mentioned to his love. Sherlock already complains about the ones that occasionally dare to grow at his temples.

Besides, John likes them.

At his desk, House has turned towards the computer and is rapidly typing something into a search bar. Wilson and Watson can both see the video from their places at the table. John shrugs and turns towards Wilson, Wilson shakes his head and turns his eyes towards the ceiling.

“So, apparently, they are just going to ignore each other?” James asks.

“Trust me. It’s probably better this way.” John answers, draining his coffee.

“Need another?” Wilson makes to stand but John shakes his head.

“No, but thank you.”

The four men are silent for a few moments, which considering who two of them are, is quite an accomplishment.

(Nothing goes wrong on planet Earth for that time. There’s no earthquakes, no tsunamis, no freak storms, nothing.)

“So, what are you two doing here?” Wilson queries.

“Well, we got a call two days ago from the British Government,” John frowns when Sherlock does a loud, dramatic stage-snort. (Louder than a stage-whisper if you must know.) “Anyway, apparently this is a missing-person case, but I’m a little stymied as to why we needed to come all the way here to solve it. Sherlock often does these flat on his back on the couch at home.”

“Wow.” James whistles lowly. “This must be _big_ , then.”

“Honestly, we don’t know. In fact, that’s why we ended up on a passenger airline in the first place. Apparently, Sherlock and his brother are in the middle of some new feud and Sherlock refused the charter jet we were supposed to be on…well, you’ve already heard that story.” He smiles.

“So, then, I gather the British Government and Sherlock’s brother are one in the same?”

“Got it in one.” John says, touching the side of his nose with his finger. He studies his husband for a moment, noticing how Sherlock’s face seems to be unnaturally close to the pages of the book he’s holding.

“Oi!” John calls out.

Sherlock gives no indication he’s heard.

“Yo! Sherlock!”

Sherlock gives no indication he’s heard.

John stands up and goes around to where Sherlock is sitting. He pokes him on the shoulder. Sherlock finally looks up, his eyes practically crossing from the effort. John sighs and pulls a neat leather case of out of the pocket of his light-blue shirt. He holds the case out for Sherlock who reaches into it with two fingers and withdraws a neat pair of frameless eyeglasses.

Sherlock settles them on his face with a nose crinkle and goes back to his reading. John lets out another sigh as he pops the case back into his pocket.

“He’s going to be awhile.” John gives Sherlock a fond look before turning towards Doctor Wilson. “And who knows how long it’s going to be before whoever else is supposed to show up actually does.” John gestures around the room.

“Oh god, there’s going to be more?” House mutters from his desk. He’s got his head cocked at an angle while some ginormous-breasted woman on the monitor is doing something unspeakable to a donkey and a banana.

“That’s disgusting.” Wilson says. “John, would you like a tour of the hospital?”

“Absolutely.” John agrees. He pats Sherlock’s shoulder and follows Wilson from the office, secretly hoping that House and Sherlock do not suddenly begin World War Three in the meantime.


	3. Sally Donovan is Hot

“It looks like we’re meeting in here.” A sharp English accent trickles down the corridor that leads to House’s office. The accent is soon followed by a medium-build woman with her hair freshly done in cornrows, tiny clear beads woven into the intricate design. She’s wearing dark blue jeans and a white button-up top, clearly dressed to enjoy a bit of holiday.

But House? You know, being _House_? His ears catch the sound and he sighs deeply then returns all his attention to the buxom blonde, the banana, and the burro.

(OMG That was too much fun to write!)

He does a double-take then lets his eyes run from her brand new white leather sandals up towards the little bit of cleavage he can see to her big, brown eyes that are now filled with questions, opens his mouth and sucks in a breathe and he says…

“Mmmmm……I’ve always heard em and ems melt in your mouth not in your hand, wanna come over here so I can find out for myself?” With that he smacks his lips and then licks them like the coyote used to do in those _crazy_ _melody_ cartoons, just as he was about to chase that annoying bird.

( _Yes_. _Yes_ he _did_.)

From the corner, Sherlock raises his head.

Sally Donovan hisses between her teeth.

(Let’s all remember there’s no love lost between Sally and Sherlock. And as much as a misogynist our dear Sherlock has been all his life—and it’s not because he doesn’t you know, _like_ women particularly, it’s because he’s never really _understood_ them. Granted, he loves Mrs. Hudson like a second Mum, loves his Mum, and has grown very fond of a certain pathologist back in London…but he never goes out of his way to insult them just because they don’t have…erm…the same _bits and pieces_ that he does.)

(Truly.)

Like Raistlin protecting the little dwarves, Sherlock unfolds from his spot, whips his glasses off his face (lest Sally see them)(pun intended) and takes two steps closer to House.

“Back off, skinny boy. He’s mine.” Sally says grinding her jaw.

Sherlock figures this must be some sort of record, because it took him at least a month to get under her skin so bad she wanted to take a swing at him. He has to remember to ask John about that.

“Oooohhh…comin’ over here to be my sweet chocolate?” House grins.

Sally stops directly in front of House’s desk, reaches over the keyboard and shuts the monitor off. (Granted, the sounds emanating from the speakers really are quite revolting.)

“Let’s get this straight right now,” Sally begins, ignoring House’s snort and eye-flick in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock raises his hand in the salute of brotherly love known around the world. House flips him the bird. Sally goes all honey badger and truly doesn’t give a shit what these two are doing; she’s not going to stand for being _dissed_ like that by some stranger. It’s different when the Freak does it. At least they have some history to fall back on. Besides, all the times Sherlock has put her down, it had nothing to do with her gender and more to do with who she picked to bed or the sloppiness of the way she did her job.

Point made.

House grins slimily up at her and Sally decides there’s no point in talking.

(To borrow a phrase here, she’s thinking that she’s used to dealing with a _better class of criminal_.)

She cold cocks him with her left hand, the force of the blow snapping his head backwards and causing her to rock onto the balls of her feet.

 _Damn_. Sherlock thinks.

House blinks.

From the doorway, three men whistle. John contemplates finding the security cameras and emailing himself and Mycroft a copy of that fight. Wilson contemplates selling hotdogs and popcorn and wonders how many people they could sell tickets to so they might view such a spectacular sights.

(And Wilson is House’s BFF, so what does that say about him?)

The third man, well, he just closes his eyes and hopes that by pretending he saw nothing that it will be true.

(He’s practiced this art a lot over the years…illegal military firearms for starters.)

“Greg!” Sally shouts, grabbing her hand with the left one and cradling it close to her breasts.

“Yes?!” House and the man now standing behind Sally answer at the same time.

“What the hell?” Sally asks, her head whipping between the door and the desk.

John pushes past DI Lestrade and sort of _herds_ Sally into a chair at the conference table. “Jim, could you please get me an icepack?”

Wilson nods. “Sure, be right back.” Before leaving the room, however, he goes out of his way to box House’s ear. “House, you are an ass.” House snarls and pulls away from Wilson, cautiously prodding at his now aching face.

John holds out his hand and Sally gingerly puts hers into it. He carefully pokes at her knuckles then smiles. “Wow, that must be some kind of record. You’ve never even actually decked _Sherlock_.”

“Well, I did hit Philip once…” Sally mutters and frowns.

Meanwhile, Lestrade is being introduced and offered coffee. He is soon slumped in one of the other chairs, legs stretched out in front of him and looking every bit the exhausted copper.

“How did you get involved in this?” John asks and he nods his thanks to Doctor Wilson for the icepack. He places it on Sally’s hand then drops into the chair next to Wilson, casting his eyes about his husband, who seems to be frozen to the spot.

“Uh, Sherlock?” Wilson asks, interrupting the flow of the conversation.

“He’s fine, Jim, just rebooting.” John offers.

Wilson looks from Sherlock to John and back to Sherlock. “Alllllright…” he says, rolling the letter 'l' because he can.

“No, seriously. He’s fine.” Lestrade tells him. “So, Sally, what’s with the kay oh?”

Sally shrugs. “He seemed like he needed it.”

Wilson chuckles and Greg laughs.

“Oh man, Sally, I could almost kiss you right now.” John snorts, giving her a pat on the upper arm.

Sherlock thaws, spins on the spot and narrows his eyes at her, everything about his expression saying _ewwwwwww_.

“Sherlock, none of that.” John says without turning around.

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “Got to give you credit where it’s due, Sally, I had no idea you could hit like that.” He tells her as he crosses back over to the corner by the bookshelf. Within seconds he’s back in the same position he started in, glasses perched on his nose.

(Notice how everyone is pretty much ignoring House at this point. He hasn’t moved much, still rubbing the sore spot on his jaw. The last time a good-looking woman punched him it cost him two hundred bucks…)

“Well, got a call from Mycroft about eighteen hours ago saying you two,” here Lestrade points to Sherlock and then John, “were over the other side of the pond working on a case and had a bit of trouble, then there were some airline tickets emailed to me and well, here we are.”

“And you brought Sally as your muscle.” Sherlock quips.

Sally frowns but a half-smile graces her lips. John and Greg pretend not to see it. Wilson is completely lost but now House is getting really pissed that no one is paying him any mind. As the others continue their conversation, he silently seethes.

(Just outside the window at House’s back, a small raptor comes streaking down from the sky, apparently in pursuit of some small prey animal on the sidewalk five floors down. As it passes the window, it opens its beak silently then disappears as quickly as it appeared.)


	4. Broken Toes are Best Treated at Home

(And so back to this happy little scene we return. Got your refreshments handy? Good. Shall we do this then, o reader?)

House has had enough. He takes a deep breath and braces his arms on the sides of his desk. There’s not a single person in this office right now that cannot see that some scathing retort is coming out of his mouth. They all brace themselves (except Sally, she’s been filleted by Sherlock so many times over the years that she’s pretty numb to dumb shit like this.) So, like the great grey dragon that he is, he opens said mouth…

…at the very same moment Thirteen appears in the doorway, wearing a white lab coat and a stricken expression.

“House, it’s Mr. Thompson, he’s in respiratory failure. We need you stat!” She exclaims then turns on her heel; they can all hear her running back down the corridor.

“How the hell can he be going into respiratory failure? The man has a broken toe!” House growls, raising his hands towards the ceiling as if looking for an answer; he eyes each of the newcomers in turn then follows in Thirteen’s path.

Out of morbid curiosity, John follows him. Sherlock looks up from the tome he’s holding, gives Lestrade a nod then completely tunes everyone else out.

(Poor Mister Thompson, he goes to the hospital because he broke his toe tripping over a tool in his own garage…then falls into respiratory failure while he’s being bandaged. Now how House knew who this guy was and why he’s here has to do with House’s clinic hours that he somehow assigned to Thirteen. The point is: the patient is probably better off for having been on Thirteen’s watch instead of House’s, because a broken toe is really no mystery at all. As Sherlock would say, _dull!_ )

Mister Thompson is about fifty-five years old, white, still broad across the shoulders but the paunch from too much beer in his younger days is moving into ‘spare tire’ territory. The skin of his face is already tinged blue and his brown eyes are open wide. John can see that he is clearly terrified; he grabs the man’s hand and tries to talk to him as House shouts orders for a crash cart.

Mr. Thompson is opening and closing his mouth like a gasping fish. John takes a closer look between the man’s lips.

“Stop!” He shouts, holding both hands out towards the nurse holding an intubation tube. John doesn’t wait to see if she is going to listen before reaching out towards Mr. Thompson’s face. The man tries to pull away from John, but since he can barely breath, it is a weak gesture.

“Help me!” John calls. In an instant, Thirteen is at the other side of the bed holding Mr. Thompson’s head still. “Thank you.” John mutters as he pries apart the man’s lips. He scissors the first two fingers on his hand and slowly draws something from the patient’s mouth. Even House is surprised when the object keeps coming.

(I could make all kinds of innuendos here, but I feel sorry for Mr. Thompson; the poor man’s got enough problems without a perverse narrator making fun of him!)

John pulls the long, black thread-like thing as gently as he can under the circumstances. Mr. Thompson is beginning to sputter and cough around it until finally John is holding a sopping wet pile of _something_.

“Someone go and get Sherlock, NOW.” John backs away from the patient after giving him a cursory pat on the shoulder. Two nurses rush forward; they and Thirteen take over dealing with the patient.

(Later on, Sherlock will be upset that he missed Captain Watson. Captain Watson will happily reappear when they are alone, just for him.)

“What the hell is that?” House finally asks. John turns his back to the patient and shrugs as he unravels the object. It is made of black material that could be satin or velvet and has a neatly folded flower at the end of it; obviously to keep it from being swallowed. There’s something vaguely familiar about it, but at the moment John cannot place it. He looks towards Mr. Thompson who seems to be doing much better.

Sherlock is there at this shoulder before he can say another word. He takes the end of the rope (that’s what John’s calling it in his head and so that’s good enough for me) and pulls it away from John’s hands. All stretched out, it is about a foot long and the origami-flower-looking-end is about four inches in diameter.

“That’s a lotus.” Sherlock states, probing the wet mass with his index finger then bringing it up closer to his face; John notes with no little irritation that Sherlock’s glasses have disappeared again.

Recognition floods John’s senses. “House, could you look at Mr. Thompson’s feet, please?”

House frowns but decides that’s too weird a request to ignore, so he moves to the side of the bed and without any type of hi-howdoya-do he pulls back the sheet. The soles of Mr. Thompson’s feet are relatively normal with lines and old scars: no tattooing of any kind at all. Sherlock steps in for a closer look: there’s nothing between his toes, either.

“What the hell?” Mr. Thompson asks from the bed. He’s thinking that the next time he breaks a toe, he’s going to splint the damned thing himself and be done with it. Weird enough that one doctor is looking at him like he’s a bug under glass, but to have this tall, skinny man with the crazy hair doing it, too?

“It’s fine, Mr. Thompson.” Thirteen croons, patting the man’s hand. “Can you tell us how that object got into your throat?”

“Well, I know for damned sure it wasn’t in there when I got here this morning!” Mr. Thompson is shaking from the fight his body had just gone under as well as irritation.

John tugs Sherlock’s arm towards the door. “Come on guys, let’s go discuss this elsewhere.”

House begins to argue but Thirteen shoots him a look that plainly says _you are no help whatsoever in this situation, as soon as I get answers, you’ll have them, too._ He raises his eyebrows at her and follows John and Sherlock out of the room.

*

It is practically no time at all before all of the men and Sally are standing around the conference table in House’s office staring down at the bedraggled, sodden ropey-thing stretched out over the plastic. They are all staring at it as if it is suddenly going to sprout legs and walk out of the room on its own.

(They all look ridiculous.)

At some point, they have all asked each other what they think. Even Sherlock has nothing to say…yet.

Doctor Wilson pokes Lestrade in the arm. “How do you think he swallowed that thing so far down his esophagus _before_ someone noticed?”

“ _Dammit, Jim, I am not a doctor_! There are three of you here, how the hell would _I_ know how the man swallowed that much bloody rope or whatever the hell this is...” Lestrade is as exasperated as the rest of them. He throws his hands up and yanks out a chair.

(Good lord, will someone take all these men out of their respective mind palaces?)

“Okay, so really, why are we all here?” Sally asks, pointing at the mess on the table. “Does it have anything to do with this?”

Sherlock steps away from the others, does a flouncy little turn and begins pacing the length of the room in measured strides. House returns to his desk in order to ignore them all and everyone else settles at the table. John watches Sherlock, Greg watches John watching Sherlock and Jim just looks confused.

“I’m not sure what is happening at the moment, though I do believe you’ll all be glad to find out why I called you all here.” Says a politely clipped accent from the doorway as there’s a dull thump against the industrial carpet.

Sherlock’s entire body snaps to attention and he growls at the man standing on the threshold.

“You!” John and Sherlock accuse at the same time. 

(Cue the drum roll…because, of course you all know who that is, don’tcha?)


	5. The Kidnapped Monk

Mycroft Holmes raises a single perfectly-plucked (Sherlock thinks they are also _waxed_ ) eyebrow at the tableau that faces him. He thumps his brolly (umbrella, guys) against the floor once more simply because he can (and it makes him feel so like a _proper_ gentleman)

“What are _you_ doing here?” Lestrade queries from across the room where he’s at the coffee machine making a fresh cup.

“My dear dee-eye, where else would I be?” Mycroft deadpans.

They all pretend not to notice Greg’s blush.

Wilson, Sally and House’s heads all move from Greg to Mycroft then to Sherlock and John. It is pretty obvious even to people who _aren’t_ Sherlock that something is going on between them. John rolls his eyes.

“Thought you might be out lobster fishing in the ocean.” John says.

Sherlock joins in. (Because _he_ can.) “Or chasing down _aliens_ of one sort or another.”

Mycroft arches the other eyebrow. Greg makes a valiant effort not to choke on his coffee, you know, considering where they were a few months ago.

John frowns, thinking about things he doesn’t like to remember, then compartmentalizes them fast.

(Narrator breaks in: would you like to know? Go read my collab with my wonderful literary partner lobstergirl, _What’s Past is Prologue_ and this whole little exchange will make sense.)

…

(Well, go on. We’ll all wait. Won’t we guys?) Six heads nod: one grey, one silver, one black, one mostly auburn, one grayish-blonde and one brown. Sally clears her throat. (Ooopss…sorry, Sally. You’ll wait, right?)

…

(Would you consider that a _shameless plug_? I ask them all. House rolls his eyes and I can see him thinking about his guitar. Sherlock and Mycroft ignore me because they truly believe in their little ever-loving hearts that they are the only _omniscient_ creatures in the room. Hate to break it to you two, but I am the narrator!) John smiles and pokes Sherlock in the kidney and the smarmy git gives me one of those _looks_. Dammit. He’s cute. James and Sally look a little concerned and Lestrade has checked out for a few moments, but he _is_ looking at Mycroft…so, you know…)

….

….

(I don’t think they are coming back. Maybe that was a bad idea.)

…

“Alright, Mycroft. Out with it.” John growls as Sherlock begins to pace. “It would be more polite to let the rest of us in on what’s happening.”

“Yes, John, in due time.”

“No, Mycroft, now.” John enunciates his words _exactly_ like Mycroft, which has the effect of making his husband snort and giggle like a naughty schoolboy.

House stares at John. Sally stares at House. Greg stares into his coffee while James stares at all of them and wonders what type of rabbit hole he’s fallen down since this morning.

Mycroft and Sherlock stare at each other.

“Enough, guys. Let the rest of us in on it.” Greg remarks.

Everyone is amazed to see Mycroft break eye contact with his little brother first. (Including Sherlock who does that nose-wrinkle thing and then looks to John to make sure someone else actually saw _that_. John gives him a slight nod.)

Sherlock makes a gesture to the room at large and Mycroft begins.

“A man by the name of A. Monk has been kidnapped.”

(Collective sounds of surprise.)

Mycroft digs around in his coat pocket until he finds a slightly folded up piece of paper. He holds it out towards Sherlock who takes it and spreads it out on the conference table.

House watches closely and thinks about spreading something _else_ out on the conference table. In unison, Sherlock _and_ Mycroft give him dirty looks over their shoulders as if they _heard_ him say it. House smirks but says nothing, choosing to stay behind his desk at the moment (or until something _interesting_ actually happens.)

When it is all said and done, the paper is a ransom note done in the fashion of kidnappers everywhere: pasted-on letters from magazines and newspapers spell out:

 

John lets out a giggle. “A thousand dollars?”

Greg snorts, too. “Seriously, is that the best they can do?”

Sherlock points at the letters, one at a time. “Each letter is from a different source.”

“What does that tell us?” Asks the Conductor of Light, er, Genius.

“John, it means that even though the kidnappers are asking for such a small ransom amount, they took the time to really _plan_ this thing out.” Sherlock claps his hands together and thinks that the annoying aeroplane ride may actually have been worth it.

“I don’t understand.” Doctor Wilson says. “Who’d kidnap a monk?”

“No, not _a monk_ , the first initial ‘A’ and the last name ‘Monk.’” Mycroft offers.

There’s another collective head nod and the scrape of a chair being moved as House joins the rest at the table. He intentionally stands on John’s other side so as not to get between him and the detective.

“Why such a low amount?” House asks quietly.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock intones lowly. “He’s worth at least ten of me.”

“Sherlock.” John says and knocks his shoulder against his husband’s. They share a quiet two seconds.

“He most certainly is.” Says a gravely voice from the doorway. “And when I find out who and why and how, don’t be surprised if I put them all in the hospital, in prison or six feet under.”

(Ok, so all these guys keep entering the place the same way. Call it a running gag and let’s go with it!)

“Good to see you, Captain Stottlemeyer.” Mycroft remarks.

“Right.” Stottlemeyer says, tugging open the buttons on his long coat. He turns his strong attention to Sherlock. “Can you find him?”

Sherlock’s expression hardens, his eyes glint. “Yes.”

That’s good enough for the Captain. “Let’s get on it, then.”

(And the narrator needs a break. I’ll be back soon for the next installment!)


	6. The Geniuses Get A Clue

(Ahhh. Narrator takes sip of wonderful rum concoction and peruses tumblr for about five hours even though I swear I only meant it to be like five minutes!)

Here we have left poor Wilson and poor Stottlemeyer in the same room with one Sherlock and one Gregory House. Bad, bad. Now, wait a minute! Before you get all stroppy, remember that Stottlemeyer routinely has worked _with_ one Adrian Monk for _years_. So, truly, he’s got some ideas how things go when you are surrounded by genius dickheads. Of course, of the three of them, Monk is probably the least dickhead, and maybe could even be considered the most levelheaded, even if things that aren’t _level_ really get to him.

What a terrible pun.

(Did I just say that? John Watson, I see you nodding over there in the corner. And Lestrade…and Wilson? Fine. Gang up on me, I don't care. I’ll just be a good fanfic writer and make you all kiss!!!)

Sherlock shrugs. John rolls his eyes, Greg doesn’t look too disgusted and where the hell did I put Mycroft? (Scrolls back up the word doc…) Mycroft is standing behind Lestrade now with one of those beautiful hands on Lestrade’s powerful shoulder.

Oh!

Yeah well. Possessive!Croft is an adorable thing, and I could spend all night talking about _those_ two, but we have a kidnapped Monk to find! Let’s see if we can get this thing organized. (I think they all get bored when I take a break.)

(Narrator clears throat, gets an eyebrow-raise from Mycroft. Guys, we have a mystery to solve. Guys?

Guys!!

Oh wonderful. Now they are ignoring me completely. How can I play with these action figures here in my sandbox if they won’t stay where I put them?)

Sherlock! Over here, _pronto_! Stop playing with your hair, you are beautiful, darling. Yes, we all know the coffee pot is shiny but it’s really not meant to be a mirror.

House! Turn off the porn. (I had no idea you could do _that_ with avocadoes…)

Monk!

Oh wait, he’s not here.

…Which is the reason _they_ are.

(Now they’re all staring at me again. Fine guys. Let’s get back to the letter, okay?)

Wilson hands a fresh cup of coffee to Captain Stottlemeyer (who we are going to henceforth refer to as Captain (not to be confused with Captain Watson!) because I keep misspelling his name. (Dear readers, I can’t tell you how many times I misspelled Tietjens!!) He walks back around the table where the camera pans over and we get a bird’s eye view of the letter and the weird black ropy-thing that came from Mr. Thompson. Sherlock is doing that thing he does and everyone else is watching him.

> _hound dog <_

House considers calling in his team, but it’s no good. Other than Mr. Thompson going into respiratory failure due to the face it’s really hard to breathe when something long and silky and wet is down your throat, there’s really no medical mystery here.

(Yes, yes it was meant that way.)

For once, House is thoroughly stumped.

…But he’s not about to admit it.

Eventually, he wanders out of the room. Only two people notice and one of them is Sally. Wilson notices Sally noticing and Sally gives him a wicked grin.

Wilson isn’t sure what to think…or perhaps maybe he should have an exorcism performed as soon as possible. What he is not going to do, however, is give in and chase House down the corridor.

Regardless, Sherlock bends over the table and picks up the ropy thing and eyes it closely for a moment. John sighs and mumbles something that sounds like _glasses_ but he’s ignored by Sherlock. Lestrade smiles, but his looks nothing like the one Sally just gave Wilson---much less predatory and much more three parts exasperated and one part _fond._ You know, how you look at your favorite kid or niece or nephew or sibling…

(I digress.)

With an exhale, Sherlock peels back the folded petals of the now-mostly dry shape that looks like a lotus.

…A black lotus.

(Get it?)

When he finally gets it open, he exhales and hands over the ropy thing to Captain simply because the man happens to be the closest non-John in the room. He takes it with a frown. The tiny square of white paper that Sherlock is carefully unfolding now is much more interesting. He gets it open completely and it’s really no larger than a bean seed but there seems to be some writing on it. He huffs and hands it to John who reads it and shrugs.

**Clue #1.**

“Clue number one.” John reads off to the room.

“What the hell does that mean?” Lestrade asks at the same time that Thirteen pokes her head into the room, looks around the room and wonders aloud, “Where the hell is House?”

“He left a bit ago.” Wilson tells Thirteen.

“Seriously?” Thirteen queries.

They all shut up. Wilson shrugs. Thirteen growls between clenched teeth and spins on her heel to head in the opposite direction House was travelling in a little while ago.

“Well then. I need to leave. Urgent matters to attend to.” Mycroft offers to the room at large. He gives Lestrade’s shoulder another squeeze and leaves.

“Don’t start any wars with the Americans, Mycroft, they are quite boorish and tend to be trigger-happy.” Sherlock stage-mutters as he flips the little square of paper over in his fingers.

After a moment, Wilson decides that he better go and see what is going on with House and gives the others a nod. Captain stares after him, thinking that it is possible he’s the only American left in the room.

(OK, so that leaves us with…’cause, seriously, I keep getting lost. I should draw a picture. Anyway: Sally, Lestrade, Stottlemeyer, John, Sherlock and…that’s it.)

“Sherlock, that’s not true of all of us.” Captain states calmly, moving towards the coffee pot.

“Yes, yes, I am aware. In my experience, however, that’s not entirely true….” Sherlock quips.

John suddenly remembers Irene’s house and a certain bulging American gunman ‘falling’ from the window in Baker Street _three times_. He clears his throat and steps in closer to Sherlock. Sherlock’s attention is pulled to John and he looks up from the paper, surprised.

“Sherlock, Captain Stottlemeyer is Monk’s _friend_. Try and take it easy on him.” John says.

Sherlock turns his gaze to Captain. “I apologize, you are one of the most reasonable Americans I’ve ever met.”

Sally, virtually forgotten in her corner, snorts loudly.

That’s one thing about Sherlock, he doesn’t normally actively _lie_. He may obfuscate, talk around something or omit things, but generally, _Sherlock tells the truth_. Sally knows this as well as anyone. That truth may hurt, it may cut you deep and drop you to your knees, but it is still _truth_. She catches Captain’s eye and gives him a slow nod. He seems content with this answer and settles back down in the chair he just vacated with a fresh cup of joe.

“Any ideas, Sherlock?” Sally asks uncharacteristically curious.

“Five, at the moment.” He uncharacteristically answers. “John, I need to see that patient’s room again.”

“His name is Thompson, Sherlock.” John sighs.

“Doesn’t matter, come on.” He sweeps out the door with John on his heels, leaving a loud silence in his wake.


	7. Stupid Is As Stupid Does

**Chapter 7**

_**Did you Miss Me?** _

Well, hello! Betcha’ thought your narrator had forgotten, huh? Nope, my poor ole five year old computer (ancient, I know) bit the dust in a bad way…heartily eating up several of my outlines…BUT! Since we are all here, let’s all grab a drink or five and find out what our next installment brings to light!)

Sherlock is on his knees…

(And omg isn’t that the beginning of your favorite line from any Johnlock fic _evar_? …well, as long as the ending is terribly tear-jerking...)

(Watch the stag night episode again…apparently I am so totally not the only one.)

(Clears throat…)

Sherlock is on his knees in Thompson’s former room. He is bent at a weird angle, his posh posterior stuck out in the air and his big hands pushing beneath the mattress.

(Turn the camera. Thanks.)

Now we can see his frown, brows so close they are almost touching the top of his nose.

“What do you see?” Lovely John asks in his lovely I-love-you-even-when-you’re-an-arse voice.

“Fibers,” Sherlock says unhelpfully then starts pulling his hands from betwixt the mattress and the creaky frame of the hospital bed.

Soon enough, John can see another long, black _thing_ that matches the one that came from poor Thompson’s throat. Sherlock holds it up like some macabre fishing trophy.

(Since he was, uh _fishing_ ….)

“It makes no sense.” The detective mumbles to himself. John keeps quiet because he’s good at it. Sherlock frowns at the ropey thing again then twirls about, “John.”

John follows him over the threshold of the door and down a generic institutional-standard grade corridor, complete with doctors rushing past and looking busy (they’re all extras) and horrible lighting that practically makes poor Be—I mean Sherlock—almost invisible.

Or hideously green.

Sherlock pulls up short and bangs his fist on some random closed door that could be a water closet or well, a real closet. A woman’s giggle can clearly be heard then House shouts.

“Go away. Occ-you-pod-oh!”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and John can see start counting to ten. Then he steps back, swings one of those long legs and kicks the door in. Actually, he kicks the door out. As the cheap institutional-standard grade (TV prop) (probably made of sugar) door handle snaps off and the door swings open, he looks pleased with himself for about three seconds until the pain starts.

“Ow!” Sherlock whines, theatrically hopping on the foot he used to kick at the door. He pauses for a split second and changes sides, keeping one eye on John’s reaction when he does so.

John thinks, _yeah that was stupid. Only in the movies does that_ not _hurt_. What he says is, “That was stupid.”

Sherlock huffs.

“Hey!” House shouts because we seem to have forgotten about him for the moment. He is standing in nothing but a pair of pale blue boxer shorts and a grey undershirt.

“Either join in or fuck off.”

( _As if House would_ share _._ )

It takes John a full minute to count how many arms he can see…and even longer to realize that two of them belong to Sally Donovan…who doesn’t appear to be angry at House anymore. In fact, the way her left leg is wrapped around House’s waist, angry is certainly not the word for it.

Actually, quite the opposite if you count the way she’s hanging on to his… _handle_? (The way Mycroft holds onto his brolly or his copper…)

(Yeah, boo! Hiss! I’m sorry, it was just _there_!)

House’s eyes are twin pools of blue flame, but he doesn’t even flinch when Sally lets go and the bits of him that are _usually_ covered by clothing are left _swinging in the breeze_.

Or not really.

John rolls his eyes and puts his back to the strange tableaux. Sherlock merely shakes his head and heads back towards House’s office.

“Good God, man, even an old whore like you could do better!”

Behind John is the sound of feet slapping against the tile and he casually raises both arms so that when Sally plows into his back on her way towards Sherlock who has actually had both the audacity to lay down yet another gauntlet towards house but is also waving about the hand signal for international peace and brotherhood (Americans use one finger)(Like a lot)…

John manages to turn so that he’s holding Sally back. He sighs, thinking that he needs a hobby that doesn’t start with saving-Sherlock’s-arse-because-his-mouth-just-has-to-keep-running-full-tilt.

“Sally, stop. Will you? Just stop?” John has had about enough of her sharp claws raking into his arms. Her eyes snap to his and she lets out a long breath.

“Sorry, John, not your fault.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of that, thanks,” he states blandly. “What the hell, Sally?”

She looks like she’s going to give him a real answer but instead shrugs her shoulder and says, “I am on holiday.”

John lets her go, shakes his head and leans against the wall. He crosses his arms over his chest and points his chin in House’s direction. “House, put it away. You do have a job to do.”

Sally cruises past with a huff, so close to John that the wind from her movement stirs his hair. He is secretly glad she’s still got her clothes on…well, mostly. He’s married, after all, not _dead_ and Sally isn’t exactly ugly. Granted, since he and Sherlock got together, no one really turns his head, but he is male and men like to _look_ , dammit. One of his favorite things to do is look down and see…

There’s a tap on his shoulder. House stands in front of him, back to his normal rumpled self.

“Better?” he asks.

“Yes, thanks. Can we get on with it now?” John states.

“I was trying…”

“House, shut up.” Doctor Wilson says from behind House as he smacks the back of his head.

John grins. The three of them head back to House’s office. John walks by himself while Doctor Wilson steers House by clutching his forearm and practically driving him forward.

(Here’s where the narrator breaks in again…I ship an awful lot of ships…but I just can’t ship Wilson/House…because House is pretty much, well, a slut. Wilson needs a partner that is a bit more _domesticated_. Which is why their friendship works, but I don’t see Wilson as a complete Watson foil.)

Alright! I’ve finished my popcorn and I’m ready to relax and read for a bit for sleeping and starting all over tomorrow. I can’t wait to see what happens when House finds Sherlock deleting the porn files on his computer! >wink wink< )


	8. Dastardly Deletions

{Homes…Holmes…House. Aw, come on! I know you all already knew this.}

We open our scene to see the long, lanky git that belongs to one Doctor Watson spread all over the top of House’s desk, long, lanky digits poking at the keyboard and clicking the mouse at record speeds.

 

House is going to be pee-oh’ed. Sherlock deftly deletes dozens of disastrous files, dumping them delightedly into the recycle bin. He’s wearing a smug smirk of smartness and John is also wearing a smug smirk, but for different reasons, number one of which happens to be plush posh Pinkerton posterior.

(Also, John is a tad bit wicked himself and thinks House does deserve dastardly deletions.)

(I have to stop watching Sesame Street.)

 

(Also, if you don’t know what a _Pinkerton_ is…how the heck are you a fan of detective stories?)

As your narrator finds herself completely sober except for the slowly draining effects of caffeine, the audience needs to be aware of the sound rumbling down the hallway outside of House’s office. The rumbling sound is being caused by a large set of bare feet slapping against the shiny linoleum that belong to Gregory House.

Who is being chased by Gregory Lestrade.

(Ok, I have to do it: who said we could put all our _Gregs_ into one basket?)

Of course, this ruckus finally enters the office and Sherlock looks up from his heinous heisting of House’s hapless hot hoochies with humongous hooters in time to grimace at certain parts of House’s anatomy that no longer seem so enamored of a certain copper who is most certainly not enamored of Holmes.

(No I did not get the dictionary out.)

House is breathing hard and leaning awkwardly on his bad leg. Sherlock’s eyes narrow. John tilts his head towards Sherlock, then looks to Lestrade, a question in his expression.

“We found this,” Greg says as he holds up a piece of paper. On it are more torn letters, and this one says:

 

> **CLUE no. 2**
> 
> **hOspItAl BaseMEnt, 3:30 pm.**
> 
> **PanDOrA’S Box WILL OpeN.**
> 
> **A WRITe-chus MOnK will ApEAR.**

They all look at each other. House moves first, going around behind his desk and grabbing the rather moth-eaten duffel bag he’s got under it; completely ignoring Sherlock, who has dropped into his chair. He rummages through the bag until he finds another pair of equally moth-eaten jeans and an old Rolling-Stones T-shirt that only has artful holes in it. He ignores everyone else as he pulls the clothing on and steps barefoot into a pair of trainers from the bottom of the bag.

John’s sure those shoes were brand new once upon a time, like about 1983 or so. But thinking about old trainers makes him thinks about other things that he doesn’t want to deal with at the moment, so he turns his attention back to his husband, who is once again peering at the paper in his hands like a near-sighted squirrel with a bad nut.

John sighs, takes Sherlock’s glasses from his pocket and plunks them onto his face. Sherlock’s eyes widen as he takes in the much-clearer letters.

“Why can they never spell?” he mutters.

Lestrade and John roll their shoulders simultaneously as the Captain stops in the doorway, clutching a cup of coffee with a familiar round green logo emblazoned on the front of it. House sees the cup and makes a whiny sound in the back of his throat. He has finished tying his shoes and is now perched on the edge of his desk.

(Idly, John wonders if he washes it off after he sits on it.)

(Probably not.)

“Don’t worry, we’ve got enough for everybody,” Thirteen announces as Captain moves to allow her into the room. She’s got a cardboard drink carrier filled with about a hundred and fifty coffee-chia-latte-mocha-expensive--   _things_ in it. She hands them out and nods her head in Sherlock’s direction.

John nods back and she sets a cup down in front of him. Funnily enough, it’s the only one that’s got a straw in it.

A pink bendy straw.

We’ll get back to that.

“What’s he got?” Captain asks.

“Another note from Monk’s kidnappers,” Lestrade says with a nod in Captain’s direction. He switches his cup to his left hand and turns his wrist over. “According to that note, we are to meet them in the basement of this hospital at half past three, so that gives us about fifteen minutes, I think.”

“Hospitals don’t really have basements,” Thirteen pipes up, her eyes on Sherlock.

John sees that and inches closer. So close in fact, that he’s got one hand wrapped around his coffee-thing and the other resting on the back of Sherlock’s neck. Thirteen smiles at him and shakes her head slightly.

John gives her a curt head-tuck and relaxes. He waits for Sherlock to chime in with some sort of correction, but instead he says:

“She’s right.”

All eyes turn towards him and he shrugs, pulling his glasses off his face and holding them in midair. John tucks them back into their case then tucks the case back into his pocket.

“They don’t have basements, they have _morgues_.”

It takes three seconds for them all to cotton on. Lestrade, Captain, Thirteen and House grab the first lift while John shadows Sherlock down the stairwell.

***

The morgue laboratory, when they all finally reach it, is as empty as morgues can be in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the week. House pushes open the door and steps into the main room. Long steel counters (benches) run the length of the walls, only interrupted by a couple of sinks. Above them are a row of cabinets (cupboards). Miscellaneous tools and boxes of gloves adorn the counters. Everything is sparkling clean and well cared for.

Nothing looks out of place.

Except for the large steamer trunk in the middle of the floor where it is bracketed by the steel tables. It is surrounded by chains and padlocks. House frowns at it. Thirteen raises a hand to her mouth.

Captain steps towards the box, hands outstretched as if afraid to touch it, bushy mustache bristling. He jerks back in surprise when the box mutters and mumbles and shakes. Lestrade looks over at John, horrified that there is someone in the box. John glances around the lab, trying to decide the best tool to use to crack open the box without harming the person (who, like all of them, he really thinks is our missing Monk) inside it.

A bone saw perhaps? He starts towards it, but Sherlock makes a clucking noise with his tongue. He’s on his knees working his lock picking set into the first padlock. In no time at all, he’s got three of them off and is working on the fourth when the person in the box begins banging on the top of it. Sherlock starts talking.

“Mr. Monk, it’s going to be alright. Just let me….” He pokes his tongue between his lips as the last padlock snicks open. Captain and Lestrade reach down together and pull the chains off the trunk. “Just stay still Mr. Monk, we’ll have you out in a bit…”

Sherlock frowns as the person in the trunk falls silent. “We need to get him out, _now_.” He yanks at the mildew covered clasp until it gives by falling onto the floor. Captain and Lestrade move back, Thirteen and House step in closer. Sherlock opens the trunk and leans over it. When he stands back up, he’s holding another one of the long, black, ropey things complete with the black orchid on the end of it.

He glares at it, snorts and offers his hand to the person in the trunk. Captain steps forward to offer his assistance then freezes as the man unfolds from the depths of the box that could have easily been his coffin.

(Cue the ‘dun dun dun’ music.)

For a minute, Captain looks horrified, then completely confused. The man from the trunk steps out on shaky legs and looks about, eyes narrowed against the light.

“Oh my god,” House rumbles, “I do believe we’ve got the wrong Monk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I told you how wonderful you are all? And patient? Thank you, dear readers, thank you.


	9. What Became of the Monk?

**Chapter Nine**

(Good lord, my life is utterly insane. Not quite Sherlock-insane, but some days are pretty darn close. One day ask me about the customer who came in and made himself at home in my office and _took a freakin’ nap_. Dude was snorin’ and everything. So, yeah, _I know insanity_ …heh heh! Now you’ve heard from me, let’s return to the morgue (there’s something wonderfully insane about saying _that_ , no?) and find out who the Box Man really is…)

(It’s not _Lucifer_ or _Christmas_ …)

(If you get that one, let me know!)

(I digress.)

Captain steps in closer to the man who is gazing about the morgue with wide eyes and raises his hands as if to touch him. The man, who is almost eye to eye with the Captain flinches and drags his hands through his hair. The brown curls are damp with sweat and tight against his scalp.

“I…I don’t…” he stutters, the expression on his face one of utter terror.

“Ambrose. Ambrose? Do you remember me?” Captain asks, speaking calmly.

Ambrose peers about, lowering his hands from his hair to smooth at his wrinkled chinos. He’s barefoot and his brown checked button down has been buttoned oddly; it hangs outside his trousers; he’s the textbook example of someone who went to sleep in one place and woke up in another. A flicker of recognition passes his features at the sound of Captain’s gravelly voice.

John wishes he’d worn a cardigan just so he could give it to the poor man. Of course, it is entirely too warm at this time of year for that. He frowns and looks up to his husband, who has (oddly) remained quiet. Sherlock’s nibbling the nail on his index finger, green eyes aglow as he intently peers at the shivering newcomer.

“Would you like to sit down, Mr…” Lestrade trails off, stuck awkwardly holding a plastic chair out to the man.

“Noooo” he speaks oddly, as if he’s been-

“Drugged!” Sherlock cries out, quickly moving towards the man who flinches again and holds his hands up as if to stop him.

When Sherlock stops, the man is hunched down over himself and has begun to cry. Sherlock turns towards John, wide-eyed.

“Sherlock, step back, give him some space,” Lestrade says in his soft Papa Greg voice. (The one that makes _Mycroft_ weak in the knees.)

It seems to do the trick because Sherlock steps back and Ambrose looks up enough so that Sherlock can fully see his face, though he remains twisted as if to ward off blows.

“Everybody, relax,” Captain quasi orders.

In no time at all, they’ve found seats on the steel tables or on the counters. House remains standing, his elbows resting on the front edge of one of the sinks. Sherlock hasn’t sat down, either, but he has moved out of Ambrose’s perceived personal space. John is next to him where he pulled himself up onto one of the tables.

“Agoraphobic,” Sherlock mutters half to himself and half to John. Aloud he says, “Adrian’s brother.”

John nods to show Sherlock that he was heard (as if there’s ever any question. John can probably hear Sherlock whisper in his head three countries away.)

(What? Wanna’ bet that’s not true?)

(Uh huh, I thought so ( _insert winky emoticon_.))

Ambrose nods in Sherlock’s general direction very, very slowly. His eyes are still wide. He clears his throat and speaks raggedly, “…where is he?”

John gets the impression that this is a man unused to asking anyone anything.

“Damned if we know,” House quips sharply.

Lestrade and Captain both frown in his direction. House holds his hands out as if to say _What?_

Ambrose moves slowly, still partially hunched over and faces House. “Who…who are you?”

House smirks and shrugs his shoulders.

Behind Ambrose, John and Lestrade share _a look_. Apparently they agree this needs to be headed off at the pass before it gets ugly.

“Ambrose, Mister Monk, would you mind if we ask you some questions?” John asks.

Ambrose turns back to face him, one hand reaching behind himself as if looking for a chair. Lestrade is right on it, moving it right under him. Ambrose nods softly again.

“I was… in the box,” Ambrose tells them, speech still slightly disjointed as he points towards the steamer trunk.

“Right,” Captain answers, one leg swinging off the edge of the table he’s perched on.

 _Duh_. Thinks House. Under his breath. Everyone ignores him.

(As usual.)

(It’s hard to be a genius when your audience thinks that sometimes, just sometimes mind you, that you can be a raucous piece of shite.)

Ambrose’s pointy finger points at his own chest. He frowns, tilts his head and wonders, “…why?...” then passes out cold.

“Holy shit,” House uselessly mutters.

“Shut up House and help me,” John orders. House looks for a moment like he’s actually got the bollocks to argue with _Captain_ Watson, but stows it quick when he realizes he’s actually surrounded by people who could very easily kick his ass if they really want to.

He drops his shoulders like a sulky grey-haired teenager and steps around to help John lift Ambrose to one of the tables.

“It’s probably not the most comfortable, but it’s the best we can do at the moment. Somebody go get us a stretcher.” John leans over the table, checking Ambrose’s pupils while House actually acts like a doctor and takes the unconscious man’s pulse.

Sherlock swans out the swinging doors and John can hear his footsteps pounding up the back stairs, the genius idiot taking them two at a time. John shakes his head again and hopes the fool doesn’t fall. Right now, one injured man is more than enough.

Ambrose begins to come around just as Thirteen comes in with a stretcher, Sherlock a stride behind her. Without a word, John and House shift Ambrose over and lay him down on the sort-of soft mattress very gently. Surprised, John looks up at House and gives him a curt nod, happy to see that he’s got _some_ bedside manner, after all.

House blushes like a schoolgirl.

“You can draw more flies with honey…” Lestrade tells them all.

“That’s _my_ honey,” Sherlock growls in House’s direction.

“Come on!” Thirteen shouts, shattering the tension. John steps around the front of the stretcher, Thirteen takes the center and House brings up the rear.

(Immature giggle.)

As he sweeps by our favorite British consulting detective…

(WHAT NOW?)

(…narrator listens with head tilted a la John Watson…)

(No, he’s not our favorite British _detective_! Lestrade is here, too. Wouldn’t that hurt his feelings?) (Narrator points at Lestrade who does his best pouty face.)

(See?!)

(Better now? Good.)

As House sweeps past our favorite British _consulting_ detective (as in, he gets paid on a case-by-case basis unlike Lestrade who gets _paid_ to be an actual, you know, detective.)

Anyway, as always, House can’t shut his big mouth. He stares Sherlock right in the face and grins like a maniac and says so clearly that the dead people in the little refrigerators behind them can hear him:

 _“Not gay!”_ and laughs like a loon.

The only thing that stops Sherlock from hitting him is Lestrade’s own big hand wrapped around an even bigger fist.

“Sherlock, don’t. We’ve too much work to do.”

Sherlock freezes on the spot, narrowed eyes not leaving the swinging doors. House is certainly up to something, and he’s going to put a stop to it.

In the lift, House congratulates himself for the well-placed jibe. If anything is going to get under Sherlock’s vampire-like skin, that will. He grins evilly and turns to face the wall, hoping John doesn’t see the nasty expression that is warping his features.

 _Oh, this is going to be so much fun_!

(And that, dear readers, is that for the evening. Tune in next time, same Bat time! Same Bat station!)

(Tell me at least one person gets that one…)


	10. Clueing for Looks

( _Humming_ )

( _Humming some more_.)

(Oh! Hai! Didn’t realize you all were back already! Heh. Wanna know what I was doing? –does shifty eyes-)

(Narrator pretends reader(s) nod(s) head(s) to the affirmative.)

(Narrator giggles. Pretending all my action figures are wearing _kilts_. Well, the boys anyway. Sally probably would look hot in anything she’s wearing, you know...)

(Well, you said _yes_ when I asked you! Plus I just wanted to use this (s) thing. I don’t know why! What? Back to the story? Fine.)

(One more thing---a giant shout out to everyone who is so wonderful and _gets my jokes and silly references_ , because you know, you all fucking rock! Around my house, no one ever gets my jokes! I’m surrounded by (wait for it, it’s a doozy)… _nonreaders!_

I know? The horror, right? Yep!)

 

When we return to our story, we find two geniuses standing around the bed of a third genius. Ambrose Monk, the Mycroft to Adrian’s Sherlock. Poor Ambrose is terribly frightened and is still out cold.

Feel sorry for him, because when he wakes up in a few moments, he’s getting pounced on by House _and_ Sherlock. Not really, you know, but figuratively.

Because they, well, just do stuff like that. Sherlock wants to find Adrian and House just wants to know how the hell Ambrose _fit_ in the steamer truck. Probably for some reason that would involve hookers and livestock, but seriously, that’s not what this story is about.

(Mostly.)

“That Donovan chick is hot,” House mutters from his place at the foot of Ambrose’s bed. (Read: Out of Sherlock’s reach.)

Sherlock silently snarls his displeasure at such an observation and goes back to contemplating the man sleeping the sleep of the unconscious in front of him. He stands at the head of the bed, arms crossed with his chin on his left hand, that sexy black curl that will soon be silver gracefully arching down over his forehead as if it is attempting to look into his eyes.

Irritated, he huffs it upward. It ignores him.

(See? That’s the reason he does all the huffing. With Sherlock _it’s all about the hair._ )

(I swear, John Watson told me that.)

Anyway, here comes John now, armed with two cups of (rather foul) black coffee. Sherlock declines his with a ripple of his fingers but House accepts the other cup with some measure of grace then proceeds to slam the stuff down his throat like a shot of Lightning 101.

John winces against the thought of the hot liquid scalding the soft tissues of someone’s esophagus then shrugs and pulls up a chair beside his husband but effectively between Himself and House.

“What does he know?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock appreciates this question. Most people (idiots) would have said something inane along the lines of ‘he’s out cold, Sherlock, surely you can’t get anything from him that way’ or otherwise be foolish enough to assume Sherlock is trying to force his way into the man’s mind.

Well…

Disappointingly, there are still _some_ things out of even his reach. Sherlock banishes that thought to the deepest recesses of the Mind Palace and turns his gaze to John.

(Yep, that eye fucking thing again. Good thing it doesn’t really produce orgasms…because the floor of the set of 221B would be flooded with…well, _you know_ …)

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers, gleefully noting that John’s eyes follow the movement. His husband looks up into his face with a slightly guilty expression but Sherlock only smirks. “It seems they were both kidnapped simultaneously.”

John takes into account what Sherlock _isn’t_ saying, and that is a very resounding _I don’t know_ who _did it_. He blows across the top of the coffee cup he’s just pulled the top off of and makes bitter beer face after one sip. Scowling at the horrid brew, he recaps it and starts to set it on the bedside table.

House snatches it out of his hand before John realizes the older man has even moved.

“Thanks,” he says and steps back just as quickly.

John watches him, curious now. “That was stupid, House, I could have coldcocked you.”

“Doc-ter Watt-son, I do believe a cold cock is the last thing you’ve got in mind.” House grins.

“What?” John asks, frowning up at him.

“Ignore him, John,” Sherlock rumbles.

“No, Sherlock, I won’t.” John crosses his arms and sits up a little taller against the pew-straight back of the hard plastic chair. “What are you playing at, House?”

“He’s playing at nothing, John. He’s showing you what he really is.” Sherlock’s baritone echoes off the tile as he leans in a little further over Ambrose, squinting.

“Well, I know he’s a sexist bigot with a God complex, and generally I say live and let live, but you know, House, you are really getting on my last nerve today. Your friend is missing, for God’s sake!” John pushes himself out of the chair in order to stand rigid, hands balled in fists at his sides.

House steps forward, not quite leaning into John’s space, but certainly using his height in an attempt to intimidate the retired soldier. (He tried that one on a cop once and it didn’t work out so well.)

(That was one of the _worst_ Moriarty-ies _ever_. Actually, I take that back, second worst. I hear there has been a worse one. And I don’t mean on the big screen.)

Anyway…

John doesn’t flinch, in fact, doesn’t move a muscle when House tells him flat out, “Monk is no friend of mine.”

“While that may be true, Doctor House, you have been hired to help with finding him. That, at least, should appeal to what little bit of decent nature you still are assumed to possess.” Stottlemeyer leans against the doorjamb, his expression as cold as fried chicken left outside in minus three degree weather in Siberia.

House sneers and for a split second no one moves. He seems to rethink his position, however, and eyes the three angry men staring at him. In a single motion, he cracks a boys-will-be-boys grin and holds his hands up high, palms outward. “Sorry.”

“House, get out.” Doctor Wilson says heatedly from the doorway. House smartly keeps his yap shut and sidles past Captain and Wilson. "If you don't behave, you'll be no friend of _mine_." Wilson deadpans at House's retreating backside. 

“What was that?” Captain asks the room at large.

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s just me thinking he’s being more of an ass than usual,” Wilson states as he pulls his stethoscope out of his shirt in order to check Ambrose’s vitals. Just as he lays the warm end against Ambrose’s chest, the patient sputters and returns to consciousness in the all-of-a-sudden-way typical of daytime soap operas and poorly written crack fanfic such as this one. 

Captain moves towards the bed. Ambrose focuses on him. “Ambrose, do you remember anything?”

“I remember _everything_ , Stottlemeyer.” (He's not really kidding, actually.) Ambrose frowns and reaches a hand from beneath the blanket to scratch at his forehead. Then he scratches at his collar and starts to look a little agitated.

“What is it?” John queries, taking in the other man’s jerky motions.

Ambrose digs under his collar until his fingers stop suddenly. He grasps something between his index finger and thumb and pulls it away from his skin.

It’s another long, black, ropey thing, only this one is dry.

“Someone take this, I can’t stand the feeling of it anymore! I need to bathe now, let me out of here.” Ambrose cries.

John and Wilson deal with Ambrose while Captain takes the ropey thing from him and hands it over to Sherlock. Sherlock wrinkles his nose delightedly…

(Leave me alone, I do think it’s delightful!)

Sherlock wrinkles his nose delightedly and peers at the rope, oblivious now to anything else happening around him, save for the insistent poke in the ribs from his Small Soldier. His glasses seem to appear out of thin air and suddenly the black ropey thing makes sense.

Sherlock tosses it against the wall where it sticks like monster spit or maybe some strange new type of chewing gum that tastes like black licorice. Either way, it begins to come apart from the force. Sherlock gently takes the bottom side of it and slides it down the wall until another clue is revealed.

This time, there’s no silly note, nothing at all except an enormous number ‘3.’

“Hmphfff…” Sherlock mutters darkly at the thing.

 

_(I love you guys. I love you all so much I write with a jammed pinky finger. Gah. Never even paid attention to how many keys you actually reach with your left pinky before. I know now, though: Q, 1, 2, W, and sometimes I even poke at the A with it!)_

 


	11. Hit Me Baby, One More Time

**Chapter Eleven: Oh Baby, Baby**

“The numbers are a red herring,” Sherlock states thoughtfully.

Stottlemeyer frowns behind his bushy 1970’s-porn-star-esque mustache while Wilson watches Ambrose as he tucks his stethoscope back into the pockets of his lab coat. Sometimes he wonders why he even bothers being the only doctor in this particular hospital who actually, you know, dresses like one.

Ambrose Monk stays where he is, sitting up on the unforgiving bunk that he’s fairly certain it is filled with tiny life forms such as _bacterium_ and _viruses_ and _paramecium_ and lord knows what all else.

In the morgue.

“Why are we in the morgue?” he requests gently from the other genius present, doing his level best not to think about the scritchy sound of the mattress beneath his thighs.

Sherlock frowns again, turns away and begins pacing defiantly from one side of the room to the other. John does his best to ignore his husband’s excessive petting of the curly-queues at the back of his own nape. For reasons…

The sudden burst of noise from the PA system overhead makes them all stop what they are doing and listen. Well, except for Sherlock, because in Sherlock’s life there’s exactly two people he’s ever listened to: John and Sherlock. And Mummy, too, and sometimes Mycroft. But that’s it. No more. Except that time he listened to Lestrade and learned something about human nature and woke up with his arms wrapped around a rather warm and cuddly doctor Watson. Oh hell, maybe there’s more but Sherlock refuses to think about them.

“House, Code Seven, Ward Three…” a plain generic female voice booms out from the cruddy PA speakers that were probably old in 1983. “Stat,” the voices adds. There’s the click of static then silence.

“Oh!” Sherlock shouts, his face doing the orgasmic-o thing. He spins and disappears.

John takes a breath, counts to three, looks around at the other men staring right back at him, shrugs and follows.

Stottlemeyer meets Wilson’s eyes, then drops his own to gaze at Ambrose.

Ambrose shakes his head, “I’m not leaving this spot.”

Wilson nods. “I’ll stay.” He thinks that's better, really, because if he gets his hands on House's neck right now, he'll probably throttle him. 

With that, Stottlemeyer does his best John Watson impression and beat feets it swiftly in the direction of the nearest lift, because he’s a lot older than those two and sure as he has no idea what a Code Seven or where Ward Three is, he’s not going to be left out in the cold.

You know, because they were in the morgue.

(Wink. Wink.)

*  


“Sherlock, what is that?” John asks incredulously as he stops dead in the center of the corridor and points with both index fingers.

Pointing directly at House, who has a child on his hip and one standing beside him.

“Surely, John, you are aware of what human young look like, yes?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow and the top corner of his top lip to both give off his annoyance yet make jest of it all the same.

“Doctor House, who them?” Asks the tiny boy on House’s hip.

“Yeah, them?” Inquires the little girl in the red night gown standing next to him, her tiny hand curled into his larger one.

John eyes the girl child’s teeny white tootsies and smiles.

 _Oh no_ , thinks Sherlock until John raises his eyes towards his husband and offers him an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“Aren’t you a sweet one?” John coos. The girl trundles over to him, gazing out at the world with ridiculously enormous Cindy Lou Who Eyes.

Sherlock fears this child greatly. _No John. No John. No John. No John. No John._ He thinks.

“What’s your name, then?” John asks as his knees pop when he kneels down to be at her level.

“Mary says heh whoa,” the child mutters then deftly pops the first three fingers of her left hand into her mouth, almost as if to plug it up to stop further words from falling out of it just as Stottlemeyer catches up with them. She makes a tiny moue of distate in his direction but otherwise stays silent. Suspiciously silent. Parents: you know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.

(Actually, come to think of it, so do Mrs. Hudson and John Watson.)

House turns to look because the temperature on the entire ward just dropped twenty seven degrees. (Fahrenheit.) (That’s 2.78 Celsius.)

(I think.)

(Author looks around. Oops. Sorry guys. Pay close attention to this next bit, have a laugh and smile fondly then pat me on the head!)

John’s face as gone from still-sort-of-tan-especially-for-England to dead white. Pasty. Crusty cream. White. White. White.

Sherlock stares, only slightly miffed because a small child with ten perfectly teeny toes just did what he hasn’t ever been able to do: scare the shit of John.

“Sherlock, we have to go.” John says in his quiet kittens-with-machine-guns voice that is now sharp enough to flake diamonds.

Sherlock nods, this time following in his husband’s wake, but not before he gets a good look at the tiny boy with the shock of ginger hair still resting on House’s hip. The detective’s eyes track up to the child’s small face, to his rather almond-shaped, green-grey-blue eyes and he smiles. The little boy smiles back, his dainty lips making a perfect heart shape and when the child waves his little hand, Sherlock can clearly make out the lettering on the miniature bracelet on his neat little wrist that says “ _Cumberbatch._ ”

Sherlock takes all of these details in before John gets to the end of the corridor, and long before Stottlemeyer reaches him. He winks at the child, says a silent prayer to whichever deity happens to be in charge of names and wishes a short first name on the baby. In the next instant, he’s in the lift headed up towards the top floor, John still not speaking and Stottlemeyer still bristling his ‘stache at them as if it were a blonde hedgehog that crawled up onto his upper lip to keep warm.

“The boy’s name is Geordie, John,” Sherlock mutters to himself as he wills the lights in the elevator to light up _faster_. "The girl is Misty."

John says nothing, only stares straight ahead, his hands balled into fists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to finish this thing! I've got way too many WIPs at the moment and believe me, there's already a new fic two chapters deep waiting to be shared...but I promised myself I'd finish at least two of these before I publish the new one. Thank you all so much, I know I always say that, but you have no idea how much I mean it. One more chapter after this one and it is done. Can you guess which Disney characters will be mentioned? (Bet you won't!)


	12. Kronk and Yzma

 By the time they make it down another corridor, this one strangely bereft of any hospital staff (cue the mysterious music)(which is funny), John is visibly shaking in his boots (funny? Not so much.)

Sherlock does a quick count in his head, making a mental map of where everyone in their rather unorganized ‘search party’ happens to be at the moment. He also valiantly tries hard not to consider those particular items on a particular list that he’s particularly kept hidden from himself for a particularly long time—well, those things that happened to John and himself whilst he was _away_ for two years.

(Right. If that made no sense, just pretend Sherlock is mind-palacing.)

Doctor Wilson is down in the morgue with Ambrose; House is a few floors down from where he and John are now, apparently either seeing to a real issue with some children, or more likely a made up one with their mother. Thirteen is with him. John and Stottlemeyer are with Sherlock, and he’s beginning to actively _feel_ the irritation that is irradiating off John in waves. Where, then, is Lestrade?

Actually, he’s coming the opposite way down this seemingly endless corridor. Good. That’s everyone accounted for, right?

Nope. Where’s Sally?

“Lestrade!” calls the dulcet tones of one Sally Donovan from the opposite end of the never-ending corridor.

(It’s shaped like a spider, you know, lots of hallways with a nurses’ station in the center.)

Sally is rushing towards them, holding up her phone. “I just received a call…” she starts, then looks around. Realizing that everyone is heading in the direction she was just given instructions to go in, she shuts up and follows. Sherlock and John never stopped.

Finally, after an indeterminate amount of time that may have been five minutes or five hours, they all wind up in front of another nondescript, plain, institutional-grey door.

Sherlock grasps the handle as if to open it, but the furiously angry John-the-Tank-Watson is forcing his beanpole husband out of the way and jerking the door open. Even it feels his power and doesn’t dare so much as squeak. Sherlock catches it and they all file neatly into the room.

(Really? Neatly? God, that is so very British of them. Let’s face it, the Americans would run in there screaming like the cowboys we are and telling everyone to ‘get down or we’ll shoot!)

(I can say that.)

(Well, I can. It’s true.)(Author is most emphatically _not_ sticking her tongue out.)

(Trust. Me.)(I’m really not.)

(I need alcohol. Someone offered me tequila earlier, I should have taken her up on it.)

(How long does it take to fly across the Atlantic anyway? That would not work, though. The best tequila is from Mexico.)

(You don’t want to know why I know that.)

….

(Oh, I lied. It was a LIME, if I remember right.)

(HA! You know who you are!)(I tried to make the winky face here, but it didn’t work.)

Annyyyywayyy…..(One of voices in author’s head clears its voice. The other fifteen or so finally get back to listening.)

Once they’re all in the room, the camera pans backwards in order to take in a very strange sight to any of them, and that includes Sherlock and House, who has finally decided he’d been canoodling enough for one day (alright for an hour, fine) and came to stick his nose into everyone else’s business.

What they all see, then (except for poor Wilson and Ambrose) is a very small, very blonde-haired woman dressed in a rather small purple, spaghetti strap dress perched on the rather ample hindquarters of a much larger (shall we say “beefy”) man who happens to be dressed in a rather plain blue uniform. The small woman is yelling quite loudly at the man and beating her small fists against his hindquarters. (Alright, she’s smacking his ass. I was trying to be polite.)

(Not really.)(winky face)

“You son of a bitch! You kidnapped the wrong one! What kind of moronic single-brain cell wonder are you, anyway? I even gave you a description! This one is good, but not. The. Right. One!” She ear-splittingly growls and spits in anger like a wet cat deprived of someone to claw in self-righteous indignation.

John stands and stares at the woman as his face flushes beet red. Everyone else looks away from her to where Adrian Monk is quietly perched on a metal chair with his hands duct-taped behind his back and looking none the worse for the wear.

If anything, the dark, curly-headed man looks pretty chuffed with himself. He grins. “Hey.”

Naturally, Sherlock gets it first and rushes to Monk’s side, ignoring the woman’s loud tirade.

“So glad to see you again, Sherlock. I do believe these people wanted to kidnap you, but I thwarted them.”

Sherlock returns his friend’s smile and quickly assesses the situation. “House, he’s been drugged. In as few words as possible, let me say he is ‘high as a kite.’” Sherlock points at House then at Monk.

House manages to keep his mouth shut and crosses the room to help Monk to his feet.

“How in the nine hells and Baskerville can you even kidnap the wrong genius not only once…but TWICE? You imbecile!” The woman continues to rail.

John continues to stare.

Sherlock continues to stare at John, his brain going deathly silent.

House and Monk continue on out of the room, followed by Stottlemeyer and Sally.

Greg clears his throat, but the sound goes unheard over the continuation of the small woman yelling at the very large man. In fact, said large man has rolled over and said small woman is now sitting on his chest, smacking his face with her tiny hands.

“Enough.”

John’s voice cracks through the air like a whip. The screaming stops, yet the detective-y staring continues. From both the consulting one and the actual, you know, one.

(Ha!)

“Miriam, what the hell are you doing here.” John doesn’t so much as _ask_ as he makes a flat-out statement.

The detective-y eyes, one set of green ones and one set of brown ones, move from John to the older woman and back to John.

“John Watson, in the flesh,” the woman, Miriam, purrs smokily.

Sherlock’s now glad he gave up the pack-a-day habit. He doesn’t think John would appreciate his voice quite so much if it sounded anything like _that_. Greg is seriously glad he forced Sherlock to give up the habit and join him in the nicotine patch brigade, because, well… _damn._ You know?

John is now shaking his head whilst the large man beneath the scrawny bum of the older woman is simply lying there, staring at the ceiling.

“What. Do. You. Want?” John grits out between clenched teeth.

Sherlock stares a little harder, desperately trying to deduce what is happening here but annoyed that his brain has turned to mush because, well, _Captain Watson_. You dig?

“I wanted your pretty genius, John.”

“Why, Miriam?”

Sherlock doesn’t think that the human body is capable of clenching a fist that tightly, but he’s not about to inform John of that fact.

“You want to know why, John?” Miriam asks as she takes all four feet ten inches of her bony self from the big man in the floor. She stands and adjusts her shapeless dress.

Now free, the big man scoots backwards like a crab to sit with his back against the wall on the far end of the room. He stares around a bit, brown eyes as big as tea platters and says very quietly in a very deep voice, “All I ever wanted to be was a chef.”

“Shut up, Sebby!” Miriam screeches then scowls first at Greg, then Sherlock and then John. She yanks something that looks amazingly like the weird ropy things they’d been finding all day out of her pocket.

(Glad I didn’t forget those?)

Greg and Sherlock both make identical expressions that say very clearly, _I didn’t do it._

“You left her for him,” Miriam croons, stepping closer into John’s space. “Therefore, I get rid of him, you come back to her.”

“No,” John states, not moving an inch.

“Oh, darling,” the woman purrs, “I know you like ‘em smart, since you are a kind of what is it? Dumb? Yourself? Yes.” She holds the last sound of her word, the hiss snaking through the room as she reaches out towards his shoulder.

John recoils only slightly, not stepping backwards exactly, but not allowing her to touch him, either.

Apparently, all three men saw the shine of the hypodermic needle at the same time. John twists away from her, Sherlock rushes towards her with his hands outstretched and Greg lunges for her arms. The three of them go down in a heap.

“Oh!” Miriam screams as Sherlock lets her go.

Greg pulls himself away and all three men stare down at the woman who is out cold with a nasty grin on her face. Both detective-y persons stare at John who opens his mouth to explain.

(Key the drums….)

Before he can speak, however, a deep drawl from the other side of the room says, “Uh oh, good thing all you geniuses are in a hospital, isn’t it?”


	13. Epilogue...or is it?

**Chapter 13: Epilogue**

“John.”

John pretends to read the Sky Mall catalog.

“John.”

John pretends to sleep.

(As if _that_ was _ever_ going to work.)

“John.”

John contemplates the baggage storage and wonders how long it would take Sherlock to find him if he crawled through them. Maybe he’ll scoot over to the aisle seat and pretend that he doesn’t know Sherlock.

(As if _that_ would…well, you get the idea.)

“ _Jaahwn…_ ” comes the deep drawl of a detective doomed to deduce deathly quiet John Watsons.

“What?!” John finally snipes, stuffing the catalog into the pocket of the seat in front of him hard enough that the man in it turns around and offers up some stink eye. John gives it right back and is on the verge of offering him the international sign of peace and brotherhood when Sherlock grabs both of John’s wrists, effectively dragging those Watsonian baby blues straight up to his own eyes.

“We have enough time. Tell me.” This time it’s not a request but an order.

John huffs and debates on how long he could lock himself into the teeny weeny loo in the back of the airplane before one of two things happen: 1) Sherlock breaks the door down and drags him out, or 2) someone calls security and he spends sixteen hours _after_ their flight is over having parts of himself probed that he really _really_ doesn’t want to think about. How he hates flying. There aren’t even any interesting passengers on board to keep Sherlock’s mind busy.

One more sigh escapes him, especially because he knows he’s lost this round.

(He wonders idly when he started keeping score.)

Sherlock continues to hold his wrists and stare.

“That was Mary’s mother. The woman who left…” John begins.

Detective-y eyebrows curve neatly over detective-y eyes that are now narrowed, and the reason isn’t the light in the passenger cabin.

“The woman who left you right after I returned. Ah.” Sherlock observes John closely. After two or three or ten heartbeats, he speaks again. “Not the brightest bulb in the pack.”

John shakes his head to the negative. “No, not sure why she thought kidnapping Adrian Monk was going to get to me.”

“It did, though.” Sherlock scans John’s face then moves his gaze over the other passengers, of which they are lucky there are only a few.

“Yeah, well, that part of my life is good and over now,” John sighs again and rests his head against the back of the seat.

Sherlock takes full advantage and leans down in order to press their lips together. They are soon interrupted by the clearing of a throat.

“Well, I’d tell you to ‘get a room’ but I do believe you already have one.”

John grins as Sherlock pulls back and starts to hold out his hand to the newcomer before thinking twice about it.

“Ready to visit London, Mr. Monk?”

Adrian smiles back just as broadly, equal parts pride that he’s come this far on his own and proud to call these unique men his friends.

“As ever, John. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesss! It is done! Thank you so much to everyone who read and gave me the gift of patience, thank you, thank you, thank you!


End file.
